


Screaming, Break Me

by WhoNatural



Series: Howlnatural's Tumblr Fic [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, vague description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look, I get that we were fucking around, and it was cool, and then I had to go ruin the fun by getting hurt. So uh, don’t feel like you owe me anything, or that you have to like, take care of me or whatever, because you’re not my boyfriend, and you don’t have to. I don’t expect anything from you, okay?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screaming, Break Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from City and Colour's Casey's Song because I'm a terrible cliché.

Derek is aware of what it cost the Sheriff to agree to this. He knows that because life isn’t like the movies, you don’t get a grace period to gather back all the fragments, and the bad guys don’t wait for one crisis to end before springing another on you. It was a break in a case they’d been hoping for for almost a year, he’d said, eyes glassy and weary and resigned, and somehow the local lowlives hadn’t seen fit to respect the fact that the man’s only son has been given the all-clear after a stint in the state’s most frequently rebuilt hospital.

The words were out before he’d actively thought them, truth be told. Stiles and Derek had been StilesAndDerek for about two months before The Incident,  fucking around with a few stolen moments here, an adrenaline-fuelled hook-up there, too many innuendos about blow jobs that were followed by a proud smirk, and more than one close-to-the-bone jibe about finally finding a language they could actually communicate through. Their hard edges were smoother, less to be opposed about and a perspective that only maturity can give someone. Opposing each other was more of a token gesture than anything else - something familiar to fall back into, easier somehow. Derek was never one for words, and he’s done better expressing things with his body for pretty much his whole adult life. Just because the abnormal calm Stiles brought to his clusterfuck of an existence inspired strange, deep declarations settling in the back of his throat, urging to be uttered aloud, didn’t mean it was smart to say any of them. So, the moment of flat silence after he’d declared, ‘I’ll look after him’, in response to the Sheriff’s dilemma, made it feel like some awkward Freudian Slip.

It wasn’t like they were keeping it a secret from anyone. The necessity of honesty in the turbulent spasm that was their lives wouldn’t have allowed for such a luxury, and the night Derek barreled into Beacon Hills Memorial with an unconscious Stiles in his arms manically shouting for help would have been a tell for anyone who bothered to notice.

It’s Scott who gives him the narrow-eyed look in the end, the sheriff too relieved and grateful to question it. He’s got so much to deal with trying to keep their territory secure that expecting him to play nursemaid would be unreasonable, if not unfeasible. His tolerance for threats has nosedived since Allison, and the thing that hurt Stiles hadn’t lived to the next full moon - but it wasn’t working completely alone, and supernatural creatures share a common thread with human drug rings in that they don’t allow a day off before fucking everything up. Derek knows the statements hidden in that glance, the ‘I didn’t think it was that serious between you’ and ‘I thought you’d be the last person to get in this deep’, but Scott is Scott, and he doesn’t vocalise them, giving Derek the respect he’s - at least - earned.

He’s not sure what he’d say, anyway, other than _he almost bled out in my arms and the thought of losing him scares me so much it makes my hands shake._

So Derek packs an overnight bag with a racing pulse and the low anxiety still churning his gut, spends five minutes staring at the weeds on the curb outside the Stilinski house before finally mustering the courage to knock on the door.

They haven’t been alone since it happened, not really - not since Derek’s heart made a home in his throat at the sight of Stiles looking pallid and frail and so fucking human on that concrete floor. Since he broke every traffic law in existence in an effort to get him to the hospital, Stiles slipping in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat.

The Sheriff answers the door looking harried, still buttoning his shirt and chewing what must be the remnants of dinner, but his shoulders visibly relax when his eyes fall on Derek.

"What do you mean, ‘werewolf bodyguard’?" Stiles is saying, sounding slightly offended by the idea.

"Hadn’t told him until just now. Easier this way," Sheriff says lowly, stepping aside.

"Dad, seriously, did you make Scott—"

He sits up from his blanket-fort on the couch as Derek enters the room, an unconscious hand making it’s way into the unruly mass of his hair. He looks good; healthy and pink and awake and Derek’s fingers tremble with relief and the urge to reach out and make sure it’s real.

"Derek," he says redundantly. It sounds surprised, elated. It does things to Derek’s chest. "What’re you— you’re my bodyguard?"

"I like to think its more like a Dumbass Patrol," the Sheriff interjects, shouldering his coat. "He’s here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid like pull your stitches or break your neck climbing the stairs."

"You say that like it’s _my_ fault I got attacked by an escaped maniac from a magical dimension,” Stiles grouses, almost pouting. Derek winces at the memory, swallowing past the guilt that if they hadn’t been so caught up in the territorial dispute, someone would have been around to help when he was jumped. Like they hadn’t learned a thing from scouring the town for a demon wearing Stiles’ face.

"I’m not victim-blaming," the Sheriff points out, leveling a finger at his son, "but you’re a magnet for danger and injury and I’d like at least a month before the next hospital visit." He opens the door. "See you guys tomorrow. Keep it clean, and please don’t call with an emergency."

"I have to go back on Friday to get my stitches out, so that’s unavoidable!" Stiles calls after him, frowning at the shut door. There’s an awkward moment filled only by the murmur of the TV before he expertly breaks the ice.

"Gonna stand in the doorway all night like a weirdo?" he asks, raising his brows. Derek’s eyes snap back from where he’d been surveying the scene; pills on the coffee table, fresh dressings still in their packaging, a small pile of books on Celtic and Fae mythology and a shirt missing from Derek’s closet. "Or are your special senses expecting an earthquake?" His lips quirk on one side and Derek steps in, coming to an awkward stop by the arm of the couch.

"How’re you feeling?" he asks instead of rising to the bait. Right now he doesn’t feel like arguing. Not with Stiles, and no matter how inane the subject.

A shrug. “Oh, you know, kind of like a human pin cushion, and reaching for stuff is a bitch, but other than that?” He holds out his mostly-healed arms. “Peachy.”

Derek balances on the edge by Stiles’ feet and nods. “Good. That’s— I’m glad.”

"Touching," he drawls back, smile dancing on his lips. There’s a look that appears in his eye then, that Derek has come to know too well. It makes his heart race, but not for the reasons it usually does. "Now that we’ve got the riveting small talk out of the way," he says suggestively, shuffling further down the couch and rising to his knees. He’s so close Derek can scent the antiseptic on his skin and the dried blood still caked in his stitches, and when Stiles rests a cautious palm on Derek’s hip, he freezes. "I was hoping you could help me out with something, you know, in the interest of healing."

Derek’s standing up so fast Stiles has to steady himself on the back of the couch. “Have you eaten yet? I could make you something,” he offers, turning towards the kitchen.

There’s a moment of confused silence before Stiles mutters, _"Not what I’d prefer to be doing with my mouth…_ " and shuffles to stand.

Derek takes a steadying breath, hands braced on the kitchen counter. When Stiles reaches the doorway wrapped in a blanket and squinting beneath the fluorescence, Derek opens the fridge on the pretense of surveying it’s contents, but he knows he can’t stop the questions from coming.

"Is, uh, everything okay?"

"You need to keep your strength up," he says in lieu of an answer. "I read that regular small meals can boost your metabolism and help with healing." It’s bullshit - he hadn’t been able to read anything beyond permanent effects of abdominal tissue scarring and caring for stitches without feeling nauseous and guilt-ridden, but Stiles doesn’t know that.

"Aww, you did some extra-curricular reading, for me?" Stiles teases, forehead wrinkling. "I’m honoured."

He knows the question hasn’t been forgotten, but welcomes the free pass for what it is, gathering up the makings of a sandwich.

The unsubtle looks he gets during the entire consumption of the sandwich aren’t easy to ignore, not even while sitting at the opposite end of the couch with the crutch of the most interesting-looking book from the pile.

“Aren’t you supposed to, like, keep me occupied?” he asks finally, when even Derek is feeling the strain of the silence. He glances over to see Stiles lazily sprawled in the blankets, plate resting on his chest,  looking bored and slightly frustrated. “You’re just sitting there, brooding loudly.”

Derek doesn’t respond.

“You make brooding an artform. I bet you have all these long, eloquent monologues full of the big words like some dark anti-hero. That’s what’s going on when you’re turtle-facing.” Derek turns a page. “Or else you’re trying to remember if you left the oven on.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, fighting back a smirk.

Stiles looks positively _delighted_ at the snap.

"So, how’d you end up on Kevin Costner Duty?" he asks, still beaming.

He shrugs back. “Your dad said he had a break in a case and couldn’t afford any more time off.”

"So he asked you?" He sounds disbelieving.

"I offered," Derek responds before he can second guess it, turning another page. He can see Stiles setting the plate down in his periphery, and feels his muscles tense up at the tiny wince.

"You… Offered," Stiles says flatly. "Why?" His nose is doing that crinkle thing again which was the first thing Derek decided he loved about him, before he could put an actual name on that feeling it gave him, and he focuses on the artwork until it stops. It doesn’t.

"He needed the help. Wasn’t busy. Find anything worthwhile in here?" Derek asks, gesturing to the book. There’s a contemplative look at Derek’s lying face before a half-shrug.

"Uh, I guess," he blinks at the segue, before levering himself up and coming closer.

This was a bad idea; up close Derek can smell past the jarring scents to his skin and his shampoo and can watch the play of shadows on his cheek from the lamp, and he hates himself a little for wanting to touch. Stiles has raspberry jam on his bottom lip and Derek is _fucked._

"The fourth chapter, I think, deals with mortals being lured to the Otherworld. Time moves differently—" he points a long finger across the top of the page, and Derek swallows. "—so what feels like a single night there, could be a thousand years here, and vice versa.” He puts a hand on the couch behind Derek’s shoulders. It’s so unsubtle he might as well be yawning in a movie theatre.

“It talks about people being stolen from their homes - usually kids, not always, though - and being used as play-things.” His tongue darts out to wet his lip. The jam is gone but Derek is no better off. “They’re, like, driven insane either by spending centuries being tortured by the Fae, or coming back here to find everyone they know and love is dead.” His eyes catch Derek’s, rueful. “Not making excuses for the freak who hurt me, but that’s enough to send anyone to a psych ward.”

Derek clears his throat, crashing back to reality at the words, and wills himself to keep staring at the page. “So he’s better off dead.”

Stiles’ brows jump. “Hm. Heard you played a big part in that.”

"Scott revised certain stances of his, too."

"I didn’t get to express my, uh, my gratitude," he says quietly, and Derek looks up to find his gaze flitting between Derek’s eyes and his lips. He licks them unconsciously, breath coming short as Stiles finally closes the distance, eyelashes fanning his cheek, pressing against him softly.

His mouth feels like it’s demanding something, but Derek knows this is Stiles holding himself back. He’s kissed him hundreds of times now, and no two are ever the same -  but Stiles always, always leaves an impression. There are fingers playing gently at the collar of his shirt and Derek lets himself drown in it, just for a second, at the sound of hushed breaths and pulse and life.

It reminds him why it’s been so long.

When he pulls away it’s with sudden reluctance, and Stiles strains to chase his mouth, sucking a breath through his teeth as he pulls on a scar.

"What the—"

"You need to rest, Stiles," Derek says hastily, edging away, "you’re—"

"I’ve been out of the hospital four days, Derek," he retorts, baffled. "I’m almost healed, man. Seriously, I’m not gonna break."

"Just lay down. Please."

Stiles gives him a half-hearted glare, but complies. “When I imagined you saying that, the circumstances were a lot more naked.”

Derek sighs, willing strength. “You need to take it easy.”

"No, that’s what I needed _last_ week, except you were barely around to see it. Which is cool, I mean, we’re not married or anything—”

Derek clenches his jaw at the crack in Stiles voice as he says it. They’re not. They’re barely exclusive and that was all fine until Stiles almost died and Derek couldn’t breathe at the idea of it. He’d just told himself it’d go unnoticed if he took the time to process, is all.

Obviously, it hadn’t.

"But right now, I just need you to fucking touch me.”

Derek rests a palm on his ankle automatically, as if he’s never refused anything Stiles asked of him. The responding sigh is cutting, and he feels his fingers tighten without meaning it.

"Not what I meant, dude."

Derek reclaims his hand, staring forward and striving for a plausible explanation that won’t sound crazy or obsessive, for the right combination of words to come. It doesn’t - of course it doesn’t.

"Look, I get that we were fucking around, and it was cool, and then I had to go ruin the fun by getting hurt," Stiles starts, because he always has to start. “And you didn’t sign up for this, but we weren’t casual enough for you to ignore it, so you’re stuck.”

Derek looks up sharply, because it’s partially true, but partially so far from correct that he feels like shouting it. Stiles is glaring at his own feet, picking at a loose thread.

"So uh, don’t feel like you owe me anything, or that you have to like, take care of me or whatever, because you’re not my boyfriend, and you don’t have to." He bats the air dismissively. "Just… I dunno, don’t make it weird because you feel like you should be doing more. I don’t expect anything from you, okay?

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, to the fact that he can see through the bravado to the self-effacing bullshit that makes them such a perfect match, so when the moment stretches too long, he says, “Okay.”

Stiles is nodding pensively when Derek can manage to look at him again. His eyes are distant, closed off, and Derek blanches at the thinly-veiled disappointment; like Stiles wanted to be argued with, like he’s—

"I’m gonna, uh— I need a shower or something. If I’d known you were coming I’d have made an effort at basic personal hygiene."

"You look great," Derek is saying, before he can help himself. It’s true, but of course, this he manages to blurt out like he’s the one without the filter.

"You’re a good liar," Stiles snorts, throwing the blanket down. He’s in a well-worn t-shirt and sweatpants, and Derek seems to remember him looking a lot less defined, his arms more slender - but Stiles isn’t sixteen, anymore, and just because he almost got taken out by a psycho with a blunt knife doesn’t mean he’s in any way weak. Derek flushes as he remembers warm, strong hands pinning him down, a tight grip on his hip and the play of muscles across broad shoulders in the quiet of night.

Stiles is halfway up the stairs before he reigns in the memory.

"I—uh, do you need any help?" he calls after him. There’s a snort in reply.

"Not unless you feel like stripping off and joining me."

Derek swallows, feeling heat reaching his face, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, don’t strain something," he bites back, more cutting than was probably intended, but before Derek can respond he’s muttering under his breath and making for the bathroom.

He’s fucking this up - he knows he is, but the perfect fix seems just out of reach, and he contemplates letting it stew, letting Stiles’ anger burn out white-hot and bright and quick for a long moment, before sighing and making for the stairs.

The water is running when he gets to the door, but there isn’t a sound of movement inside. Derek can practically picture him, perched on the edge of the sink, boring holes in the floor tiles.

"Stiles?" he asks, knocking once, and there’s an extended pause before he moves.

"Changed your mind?"

Derek sighs, pressing his forehead to the wood. “‘m sorry.”

There’s a flutter of deliberate movement inside, as Stiles starts determinedly pulling off his clothes. “Seriously man, it’s fine. Maybe we should cool it for a while, after every— fuck!”

The swell of panic that hits Derek’s chest is partially from the words, partially from the scent of fresh blood emanating from the bathroom.

"Stiles? What’s— I smell blood."

"Because that’s a normal thing to say."

"Are you— why are you bleeding?”

There isn’t a response, and Derek contemplates how much he’d get bitched at for breaking the door down.

"Stiles…"

"I pulled some stitches, alright? It’s nothing."

He makes a fist out of the hand reaching for the handle. “Let me— can I come in?”

"Why?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"I just… Let me see, please?"

A put-upon sigh precedes the turn of the knob, and then he’s there, naked from the waist up, wearing one sock and a look of frustration. The scars on his torso are angry and puckered, blood smeared from the largest one, resting by the vee of his hip. Derek takes a steadying breath and immediately regrets it when he tastes iron on his tongue.

"It’s not even that bad."

"Sit."

"What’re you— you’re regressing to barked orders now?" Stiles asks, but shuffles back anyway.. The room is slowly filling with steam from the showerhead, and Stiles watches dumbly as Derek sinks to his knees. He reaches cautiously for the tender skin, eyes darting up to gauge reaction, but Stiles is simply looking at him, eyes inquisitive and striking as always.

He’s warmer than the last time Derek really touched him. He’s got an echo in his mind of an overcrowded emergency room and the words “twenty year old male, abdominal trauma and slash wounds to the outer forearms, possible concussion. BP is low; pulse weak but pupils responsive—" rattling around in his head before he shakes them free.

The tear on his sutures looks worse than it is, and the muscles in Stiles’ stomach flinch at  Derek’s exhale. He dips a dry washcloth under the faucet with care, dabbing at the blood.

Stiles doesn’t speak. Derek knows his eyes are fixed firmly on the top of his head, but he lets himself be soothed by the ritual of cleaning the blood, taking care of his own. The scars look worse up close. There’s some primal, latent part of him that wants to press his cheek to Stiles’s skin, snuffle and whine, but though he’s sure this is the one person who would understand, he’s not ready to let himself devolve that much. He maps out the moles on the planes of Stiles’ chest, tries not to let the image of blood spatter take their beauty away from him.

“I can’t read you today,” Stiles confesses, breaking the silence at last. Derek looks up and immediately regrets it, because it’s hard to hide from that gaze when it’s figuring something out. “‘s like you don’t wanna be here but you can’t manage to leave.”

“That’s not— I want to be here.”

“Sure about that?”

“I’m trying not to be… weird about this.”

The snort Stiles replies with tells him what a failure that’s been. “You want to be here.”

“Yeah.”

“With me?”

Derek just looks at him,  reaches out to open the shower door, making space for Stiles to walk by him.

Stiles raises a brow, straightening up slowly until he’s at full height. He doesn’t break eye contact as he undoes the drawstring on his sweats, slides them over his thighs and lets them drop to the floor.

He isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Derek gulps slightly, bolstering his resolve until Stiles sighs and steps under the water. He’s like something from a dream; droplets forming over his lashes, making his lips shiny, enhancing the curve of muscle. His limited range of movement is apparent when he reaches for the shampoo, keeping his sutures from the brunt of the stream, and hisses under his breath.

Derek has the bottle in his hand before he’s registered stepping across the room. Stiles still has that curious expression on his face, and he hopes is own isn’t as oddly pleading as it feels. Whatever Stiles sees there, it prompts him to turn slowly and without comment, presenting his back.

Something in Derek’s chest calms when he gets his hands on him, fingers kneading through short hair, pressing into his scalp. He knows it’s still that insistent little ache to see Stiles well again, that blanches at his injuries, and it doesn’t take too much introspection to figure out why.

He’s massaging soap into Stiles’ shoulders, then, listening to the bit-back moans, when he finds himself saying, “you’ve got it wrong”

"Hnngh?"

It’s easier to say without eye contact. It’s probably the coward’s way out, but Derek has to be brave so often that Stiles always seems to give him a free pass in that respect. Neither of them are so great with the heart-on-sleeve shit.

"I don’t wanna cool things off," he tells the pliant, addictive skin of his back. "You getting hurt, it didn’t make me freak out because we were casual." Stiles looks back over his shoulder, Derek focuses on smoothing a hand down his spine, around the flawless swell of his ass. "It made me realise how— what you mean to me."

Stiles turns then, facing him.

He still can’t meet his eye. “I think I fell for you, Stiles. Probably a long time ago, I don’t know. It’s just— this isn’t new. It just took me a while to realise it.”

He chances a glance and Stiles is looking back at him with an unreadable look. The silence stretches between them, and he’s waiting for some kind of reaction - but the one he gets isn’t the one he’d expected.

Stiles guides his hand back to his hip, eyes soft and encouraging, and it’s strange not to hear the vocalised thoughts that usually characterises his _modus operande._

It says enough, though - it says _"I accept your apology, I finally get it, you can keep taking care of me if that’s what you need to do"._

And it _is_ what Derek needs. He’s needed it from the moment he found Stiles bleeding and cold, a trail of scarlet from his feet because he’d dragged himself away from danger, tried to afford himself some dignity. Crawled away to _die_.

He’s needed it since he was left with empty, red hands after passing him off to the doctors, since he was left pacing and shuddering in the waiting room, since he had to look the sheriff in the eye and tell him what happened.

He crouches to his knees and drags his hands with him, pressing into the muscles of Stiles’ thighs with more pressure than he probably should. His shirt was soaked long ago from the spray, and Stiles weaves a damp hand into his hair as he touches him, fingers going where he needs them to. He can’t seem to stop. Stiles is real and warm and alive and it’s only when Derek’s chest lurches on a half-sob that he realises how terrified he’d really been.

“‘S okay,” Stiles murmurs, breath shuddering. “I’m alright, we’re alright.”

Derek nods, jaw clenched, and continues his aimless touches. It’s like he can’t get enough and it’s all familiar but alien at once. Stiles’ eyes are dark when they meet his, his breathing becoming shallow, and he twists off the shower without preamble.

He’s been getting hard under Derek’s touch, unavoidable with the stimulation, and he stands shameless and proud and perfect. Goosebumps follow each caress and his hand fists in the hold he’s got on Derek’s hair, and the burning contact between them makes it feel like the ground is shaking.

He rests his forehead on a patch of blemish-free skin, sucking in greedy breaths of scent for a full minute before he realises Stiles is shivering, standing perfectly still because he knows what Derek needs.

But that’s not how this is supposed to go.

He wraps a towel around him, like he’s smaller and more fragile than he is, dabbing gently at his wounds and pressing lips to his temple.

Stiles clutches to his shirt, letting his eyes slip shut and his head lol dreamily sideways, and it’s with scrupulous caution that Derek slips an arm beneath him, gently lifting him to his room and laying him on the bed.

He knows Stiles would normally be giving him shit for this, for treating him like some injured princess archetype - but even werewolves are breakable and mortal, and it isn’t what Stiles is that’s causing him to act like this, but who he is.

Derek’s heart doesn’t speed up in fear anymore, not for anybody but Stiles. On some level, hopefully, he knows that. If not, Derek will show him - if it takes one night or a thousand.

He pulls off his clothes with nerves coiling in his gut. Stiles watches him from the sheets, appreciative, uncharacteristically silent, and follows him with his gaze as he walks to the side of the bed, lowers himself, and lays on his side.

He looks Stiles in the eyes, then, for the first time unguarded, and there are soft smiles exchanged with sweet, tender kisses, Stiles’ body heating up against his.

It isn’t long before he’s back to full hardness, Derek avoiding touching his cock, and the quiet, sweet moans when he encourages a leg up and teases at his crease, is all the urging he needs.

He gently turns Stiles on his side, covers as much as he can with his body and works him open, one lubed finger at a time, pressing kisses and promises into his shoulder, whispering concerns into the soft curls of hair at his nape, scrapes blunt teeth of need at his collar bone.

"You sh— come on," Stiles says, doped and soft and needy. Derek can’t refuse him; not when it comes to this. So much of their lives are arguments and jibes but when Stiles is asking for Derek, needing him in this way, it’s not in his power to say no.

He slips into him slowly. Stiles exhales like its a relief as it happens.

The first rock into his heat feels like coming home. Derek shuts his eyes and bathes in it, let’s the feeling burn itself across his memory like he promised himself he would. He’s confessing like a dying man before long. _“_ _You’re good, Stiles,”_ Derek hears himself saying, “ _So good for me, I’m gonna take care of you, keep y’safe…”_

It’s nothing he ever thought he could say aloud, but with Stiles’ arm crooked to hold his head in place, pushing back with the tiny little thrusts he can manage, something in Derek’s chest is cracking open, everything he feels soaring out.

_"Just for me. Was so terrified, Stiles, so scared. Never gonna let you get hurt. Never again, promise…"_

And Stiles is squeezing his nape in reassurance, nodding into his cheek where it’s turned, accepting his promises, taking what Derek is laying out for him, welcoming him into his body with a neediness to match.

They fuck like that, slow yet urgent, sweat pooling between them and hands gripping in the low light. It’s comfort and shared trauma. It’s romantic and tragic, fucked up and the healthiest interaction they’ve ever had.

Stiles comes like it’s been drawn out of him, Derek’s hand on his cock, exorcising lingering doubts. Derek kisses him through it, rolling his hips deliberately, extending the moment. When he finds his release, it’s with the taste of Stiles’ skin in his open mouth, breath hot and strained and shocked. He presses his lips to Stiles’ pulse again, savoring its presence and smiles like he’s waking from a pleasant dream.

They fall asleep holding each other, enveloped in silence; alive, in love, together.


End file.
